


enmity

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Agent As Unsub, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Diana dies and Reid goes off the rails, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Gen, Post-Prison, Post-Season/Series 12, Serial Killer!Reid, Spencer Reid as Unsub, Substance Abuse, evading law enforcement, i changed the summary btw, this is the still the same fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25159630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: There’s a new nightmare now. It’s about strangling Cat, except JJ isn’t there and he actually kills her. That’s not really the new part, though, he’s dreamed about killing Cat before (though he would never admit it).The new part is the lack of shame. Before, in the dream, he would stand over her motionless body in horror and her body would melt into the bodies of the men he poisoned and none of those people actually died but he feels so guilty for even thinking about it -All of that is gone.In the new dream he stands over her dead body, after, and he feels pride. Pride, hunger, rage, desire, hatred - but no remorse...(or, post-prison reid snaps and starts killing surrogates for cat after diana dies)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 113





	1. prologue: the end

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr at zhuzhubii, if you prefer
> 
> unsub!reid is like my favorite thing ever. i'm also writing a cat/reid role-reversal fic with hitman!reid and profiler!cat, so look forward to that if you like unsub!reid lol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a peaceful death is not a thing of beauty.

_“’Little son, I have longed a while to see you, and now I see you the fairest thing ever a woman bore. In sadness came I hither, in sadness did I bring forth, and in sadness has your first feast day gone. And as by sadness you came into the world, your name shall be called Tristan; that is the child of sadness.’_

_After she had said these words she kissed him, and immediately when she had kissed him she died.”_

_― Joseph Bédier, The Romance of Tristan and Iseult_

_..._

It's not until three months after Milburn - _and Lindsey and Cat, and Scratch_ \- that everything comes to a head. 

He’s just leaving work when he checks his voicemail -

_Hello, Dr. Reid? This is Anna with Moonlight Memory Care. Something has come up with your mother, Diana, that it would be better to discuss in person. If you can make it over here as soon as possible, that would be best._

\- and just knows what they’re going to tell him. 

He takes the metro in a daze, both knowing what he’s going to hear and rejecting it as a possibility. He’s shocked stiff, getting off at his stop through pure muscle memory. And when he walks into _Moonrise_ the staff just have this look in their eyes. He didn’t call to say he was coming tonight, and it’s after visiting hours but no one tries to send him away. They know why he’s here. 

And when a nurse comes over to tell him, he doesn’t hear anything she says. She’s asking him to take a seat, because that’s what you do when you notify the family about a death. He doesn’t listen to her, just says -

 _I’ve worked for the FBI for 14 years. I know a notification of- of death when I hear one. Just- can I-_ he has to take a few deep breaths to collect himself. The words that usually come so easily are nowhere to be found - _can I see her? I need to see her, please, I need to see her._

The nurse just says _of course_ and leads him down the hall. She must’ve died in her sleep because they’ve left her in bed so he can pretend like she’s just sleeping _and, god, she looks like she’s just sleeping_ -

 _He can’t bear to actually visit, but looking in on her, knowing she’s alright? Even with his guilt -_ I abandoned her, how could I have done that? - _it’s comforting just to look at her, to watch her chest move steadily up and down as she sleeps. It reminds him of reading in bed, napping in the afternoon and waking up with a book open on his belly. How he would lay across her and let her breaths rock him up and down and up and down_

\- but her chest isn’t moving anymore. There is no comfort in seeing her like this. And even though she’s not bloodied and mangled like the dead bodies he’s used to, it’s the most horrific scene he’s ever walked in on. 

There were only two moments after prison where she knew who he was. Back in front of the elevators when they were reunited, and weeks later, once, eating lunch with him at _Moonrise._ It’s not even as if he was away all the time and just missed her moments of clarity - he spent his six weeks mandated leave all but living there, and it was still only those two times. 

And isn’t that ironic? That he went to Mexico to try and stop this, to try to keep her with him for longer, and instead he spent the last days of her lucidity away from her, fearing for his life and pitying himself. 

He doesn’t want to touch her because the voicemail was left hours ago, and the flush of life has long left her face. He knows she won’t feel alive anymore, that she will be stiff with death and cold to the touch. It’s bad enough seeing her like this, he doesn’t need to feel her too - 

_He has many memories of that, of feeling her. She used to tangle her fingers in his hair when he was upset, wipe his tears from his face and rub circles across his back_

\- and he remembers every moment with her in striking clarity -

_Is this payment for my memory? Did she have to lose hers so early so I could have mine?_

\- but it will never be enough. What he wouldn’t give for just one more moment. Hearing her read him -

_‘The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly - by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous operation, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep*’_

\- to sleep. 

________

_*quote by Geoffery Chaucer_


	2. part 1: a bar and a girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which spencer digs himself a hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major dead dove: do not eat. be warned.

_“When her crying was passed, she came before the Archbishop and fell down on her knees, the Archbishop saying very roughly to her, ‘Why do you weep so, woman?’_

_She answering said, ‘Sir, you shall wish some day that you had wept as sorely as I.’”_

_― Margery Kempe, Book 1_

… 

After leaving _Moonlight_ -

_You don’t have to sort through her things right away, Dr. Reid. We understand this is a difficult time for you, and we can hold onto them until you’re ready, okay?_

\- with his mother’s copy of _The Book of Margery Kempe_ resting in his satchel, Spencer doesn’t know what to do with himself. He wavers in place, then somehow manages to find his way home, scantly registering his surroundings -

_Riding the metro is eerie in his haze. People get on and off and on and off and on and off - we pass by so many people in our lives without even registering their existence, save for fleeting moments of sonder. How many people passed by Diana Reid without recognizing her claim on the world? How many times did she visit the supermarket and greet the cashier, who now years later could not distinguish her from another long-forgotten customer?_

\- and then he’s in his apartment. Scavenging through the sock drawer, tearing books off the shelves. Searching frantically for a little glass vial with some liquid still left inside -

_He poured them all out after taking one last hit and resigning himself to the imminent withdrawal, but he could never bring himself to throw them away. Every last one of his empties remains hidden around his apartment, concealed in little cut holes in duplicate books, false backs of drawers, a few mismatched pairs of particularly fluffy socks. The same places he hid them when they were full. He’s still not sure if it’s a warning or a comfort_

\- even though he knows it doesn’t exist. Empties are found, examined, then thrown to the floor, creating a cacophony of books, and socks, and vials on the carpet. It’s not as if he could take any, at least not right away - his inability to let go never extended to the syringes. But just holding it in his hand would be a reprieve, knowing relief was only a trip to the needle-exchange away. 

No luck, as expected. He’s dropping to the floor, limbs trembling, hands grasping for glass. Giving desperate shakes to tiny empty vials as if it will make liquid appear. He’s pulling at his hair, tugging at his tie, screaming out in anguish. Picking himself up, diving for the back of the closet, extracting a set of clothing so far from his usual style his teammates would be surprised to learn he owns it. 

And newly dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans - clothes that aren’t so horrendously large as they were the last time he donned them - he looks like a proper drug addict, the kind you see in the movies. He’s Harry Goldfarb*, ready to crawl the streets for a hit, too impatient to make a call and arrange a more high-end transaction -

_I’ll most likely end up shooting heroin. Or swallowing oxy, if I’m lucky_

\- and get the good stuff. He’s never been desperate enough for street heroin before -

_He never let himself run out. Played underground poker for extra funds, and flashed his revolver whenever the big guys started heckling him. 26-year-old Spencer Reid was a little guy, but street thugs can tell who has a gun for show, and who knows what to do with it. Lucky for Spencer, he fell (just barely) into the later category_

\- but now feels like a good time to change that. 

_It’s called crawling the streets for a reason_ , Spencer thinks. Because he feels like he’s on his hands and knees, a slave to his self-inflicted poison, walking around the dangerous parts of DC looking for someone who’s selling. 

Instead, he finds himself in a seedy bar, gulping down brandy like it’s water, not really knowing how he got there. He has a vague memory of stumbling past it and thinking about trying something new, about drowning his grief in alcohol rather than opiates. At least this way, he’s not breaking the law. 

A girl - a woman, rather - comes up to him, thin and boxy-figured. Her brunette hair waves every so slightly and hangs limp around her shoulders. She’s wearing a little sleeveless dress, and he’s sure she’s Cat Adams. 

They’re talking, talking -

_You look like you’re having a rough night, Mister…?_

_Dr. Reid._

_Alright, Mister Dr. Reid. You wanna talk about it?_

_I just want to forget._

_Well, they say company’s good for that_

\- then they’re in an alleyway - out behind the bar, he presumes. She’s giving him a sultry little smile, saying _you can pay me after, Mister Dr. Reid, you look like you could use this_. And she’s sliding her hands up his chest, closing her delicate hands around his shoulders and pulling him forward so she’s trapped between him and the wall. At noticing his stiff, unmoving frame, her smoke-damaged voice whispers out _first time doing this? Don’t overthink, Mister Dr. Reid, you can do whatever you like to me._

He doesn’t hear any of it, just sees her little seductive smile blurring with a self-satisfied smirk. Her words morph into -

_Spen-cie._

_Hello Cat._

_Your mother’s an Alzheimer’s ridden moron, and if she’s dead it’s your fault!_

_No, it’s yours Cat, it’s yours it’s yours._

_Sweetheart, you can call me whatever you like_

And Cat’s reaching for his belt, undoing the clasp and reaching inside and -

_What, having Lindsey molest me down in Mexico wasn’t enough for you, Cat? You had to come back and do it yourself this time?_

\- he’s slamming her into cracked brick, feeling sick satisfaction when he hears the crack of her skull against the wall. Wrapping his long fingers around her tiny, tiny, delicate neck, squeezing just enough so she knows what’s about to happen, to drag out her moment of fear -

_I’m gonna kill you, Cat, I’m gonna kill you._

_No, no! I’m not Cat, I’m not Cat! You don’t have to do this, I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. Just let me go, Dr. Reid, just let me go, please. Please let me go._

_There’s no one here to stop me this time, Cat, no JJ to come rescue you. You killed my mom, you bitch, I saw her body._

_I didn’t, I didn’t, I promise I didn’t! I’m not Cat, please Dr. Reid, I’m not Cat!_

_You killed an innocent woman because you’re bitter I outsmarted you. Your muscles have atrophied from being in prison, Cat, you can flail around all you want, but you’re not getting away this time._

_Help, help! Somebody help!_

\- pressing down harder and harder and harder, crushing her windpipe until her pleads turn to desperate half-gasps for air -

_You think you can have me thrown in prison and watch me suffer? Think you can kidnap my mom, and I’ll just let you? You think that’s funny?_

\- then choking cracks, eyes wide and terror-stricken -

_Well who’s laughing now, huh, huh Cat? Who’s laughing now?_

\- until her eyes roll back into her head and her body falls limp. He feels her hyoid _snap!_ under his palms, his chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline, ghosts of laughter huffing out into the nighttime air. 

Her lips have long gone blue, but he’s still crushing crushing crushing. And then suddenly he sees her. This woman who is petite and boxy-figured and brunette, but who is -

_not Cat definitely not Cat. Oh god, what have I done?_

\- hanging motionless in his grasp. He lets go in his horror, and she falls boneless to the floor in an unnatural tangle of limbs, in death no longer caring to avoid discomfort. His hands fly to his head, tugging at his hair and dragging down his face -

_Just like they did when all those men were running down the prison corridor, choking up blood because of something you did, Spencer oh god. What have you done? What do I do, what do I do?_

\- He doesn’t know what to do. There’s a dead girl on the floor in front of him, and he’s on the wrong side of the law this time. This is a crime scene, but he’s not investigating it. 

Without thinking, he wraps his sleeves around his hands and starts scrubbing at her neck, frantically trying to erase his prints because -

_Oh god, I’m in the system I’m in the system_

\- they would link him to the crime. He sees a dumpster nearby and heaves her into it, smears trash dripping with fermenting food waste all over her despite the thought of bacteria and mold spores and _dirty dirty dirty ew ew ew gross_ , in order to degrade - or at least obscure - any physical evidence. He slams the lid down over her because he can’t bear to look anymore -

_Because it’ll take longer to find the body that way._

\- He’s not sure why he does any of these things. Of course he knows the right thing to do is turn himself in, it’s not as if he enjoyed it. It’s not as if he isn’t filled, almost suffocatingly - _and isn’t that ironic_ \- with remorse. But self-preservation is a strong instinct, and he’s not about to go back to prison. 

Spencer Reid, having just killed a woman, rides the metro home as if he’d just gone out for drinks.

…

_Victim was discovered buried in trash in a dumpster behind Milliways’ bar. Owner of the bar called 911 to report the body, which he found when taking out the trash before heading home at around 4am (see: call logs and witness statement below). No security footage from inside the bar. CCTV is limited in the area, and did not capture the victim or the perpetrator. No witnesses have come forward. Victim is unidentified as of yet, and will henceforth be dubbed ‘Jane Doe’._

_Tentative COD was asphyxiation by manual strangulation due to bruising around the neck and petechiae in the eyes. ME confirmed manual strangulation to be the cause of death, time of death was placed at around 3 hours before discovery (est. 1am). No fingerprints were retrieved from the neck. DNA evidence from the skin was irretrievable due to contamination with trash and food wastes._

_The ME’s report indicated evidence of recent vaginal intercourse, but no signs of sexual assault. Vaginal and oral swabs confirmed DNA samples from three males. Waiting on matches from the sex offender and prison databases. Due to the age of the samples, it is likely none were the perpetrator._

_Marks on the arms indicative of long term intravenous drug abuse. This is confirmed by the toxicology report, which indicated the presence of heroin in the bloodstream, as well as nicotine and elevated blood alcohol._

_It is likely Jane Doe was a prostitute, and the case is tentatively being ruled a sexual interaction gone wrong. Waiting on an ID for more information._

…

_*a character from “Requiem for a Dream”_


	3. part 2: cognitive dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which spencer forgets

_“If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.”_

_― George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four_

…

He can’t remember how he got home from work Friday night, or why he woke up reeking of alcohol when he hasn’t been drunk in years -

_Emily’s dead and he’s cradling the empty vials in his hands, throwing on whatever dark clothing he grabs first, rushing out of his apartment and drinking himself into oblivion instead of getting high - and isn’t it funny how history repeats itself?_

\- but he can’t seem to make himself think too hard about it -

 _It’s better this way_ , says his brain, _I’ll keep you safe, don’t worry_

\- so it must not be too important. _I’ll probably remember better once the hangover wears off_ , he tells himself, _or maybe not - even_ my _memory isn’t immune to the haze of excessive alcohol consumption._

He peels off his sweat-stained clothes and drags himself into the shower, scrubs himself down -

_For some reason he feels dirty. It’s more than just the stench of alcohol, he feels like he’s covered in germs, the way he feels when he has to touch something gross at a crime scene but many times worse_

\- with a little more vigor than usual. His showers are now long and hot, where his showers used to be quick and efficient, only warm enough to keep chills at bay. It’s an artifact of what he couldn’t have in prison - the time and privacy for relishing in the steam. 

Afterwards, he throws a towel around his neck and dresses in some (relatively) casual clothes, then catches a whiff of his hoodie from last night and decides it’s about time he does laundry (despite how much he hates dirt and grime, doing laundry is so much harder now. It’s something about the smell - the laundry room in his apartment complex has the same chemical air as the one at Milburn - that takes him right back). 

He decides he might as well wash his sheets too and throws them in the hamper along with his clothes before he grabs it, along with a few quarters and his jug of detergent -

_Lavender scented - it fragrance lingering on his clothing helps, if only a little bit_

\- and heads downstairs to the laundry room, casually greeting a few neighbors coming and going for Saturday morning activities as he walks. The whole ordeal (and laundry is an _ordeal_ now) exacerbates the ache in his head from the hangover, so he resolves to grab a coffee while he waits. 

A coffee and muffin are consumed over a few scientific journals he’s been meaning to read for a few weeks now, then a casual reread of _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ once he finishes with those. By then it’s time to move his laundry from the washing machine into the dryer, so he heads back home. After his laundry is finished, Spencer finishes a few case reports he’d tucked into his satchel before leaving work, then settles in for a few episodes of _Star Trek_.

All in all, it’s a fairly normal weekend for Spencer Reid.

… 

The next two weeks pass almost completely _business as usual_ \- he wakes up, has a coffee, takes a shower, goes to work, has more coffee, comes home, orders take-out, reads a bit, contemplates sleeping, reads some more, then goes to bed and hopes the nightmares aren’t too bad, takes a second shower after waking up in a cold sweat -

_There’s a new nightmare now. It’s about strangling Cat, except JJ isn’t there and he actually kills her. That’s not really the new part, though, he’s dreamed about killing Cat before (though he would never admit it). The new part is the lack of shame. Before, in the dream, he would stand over her motionless body in horror and her body would melt into the bodies of the men he poisoned and none of those people actually died but he feels so guilty for even thinking about it - all of that is gone. In the new dream he stands over her dead body, after, and he feels pride. Pride, and hunger. Rage, desire, hatred, but no remorse_

\- He writes it off as latent trauma. Sometimes our minds take a long time to start processing things, Spencer thinks, this is just part of my brain trying to deal with what happened. _I don’t actually want those things. I don’t I don’t._

As much as he tries to avoid self-medicating of any kind now, he buys some melatonin supplements to see if it will help. It does a little bit - though it’s probably just the placebo effect - so he pushes the dream to the back of his mind and tells himself _it’s not important. It’ll go away eventually; it’s nothing to worry about._

… 

It’s just after two in the morning - Tuesday, just over two weeks after _that_ Saturday - and Spencer can’t sleep. The nightmare woke him up again, so he decides to take a shower, cranks it up as hot as it goes, steps under the stream and watches as his skin turns an angry red from the heat. Once it starts to feel almost painful, he steps out and towels off, throws on his robe and goes to make a coffee - might as well if he isn’t going to sleep anyway. 

He goes to find some music on his phone and notices that Garcia left him a voicemail while he was in the shower - the water must have masked the ringing - probably telling him he needs to go in for a case. He goes to listen to it and -

_When did Moonlight call?_

\- there’s another voicemail in his call log - one from over two weeks before. He doesn’t remember listening to it, but he must have because it’s been opened and he never would have ignored anything about his mother -

_Oh god, I hope she’s okay_

\- Things do slip his mind sometimes, especially things he’s heard not seen. It’s just weird he forgot something pertaining to his mother. If he thinks about it, he can remember every moment with her: reading him to sleep, dancing to Bob Dylan, trying to cook for her on Mother’s Day, calming her down from episodes, committing her, saving her from Cat -

_lying still in bed, her face pale and chest unmoving_

_Wait, what? No, that didn’t happen. Mom is fine, she’s at Moonlight and they’re taking care of her, she’s fine_

\- He clicks on the voicemail, brings the phone up to his ear with shaking hands. His body already knows what it’s going to hear, but he still has a few fleeting moments left where his brain can pretend it’s not real _please, don’t let it be real -_

_Hello, Dr. Reid? This is Anna with Moonlight Memory Care. Something has come up with your mother, Diana_

\- The phone clatters to the floor - carpet, at least, so the screen doesn’t shatter - and his breathing picks up, hitching in his chest. For once, Spencer Reid’s mind is completely blank - something not even the drugs could achieve. And he’s spent a lot of time wishing away his massive IQ for all the shit it’s gotten him, wishing his thoughts would just stop racing for once. But it’s not anything close to the relief he thought it would be. The blankness is seeping into his being, sliding down his throat and settling like ice in his stomach, filling his belly and choking chilled bile up his esophagus. The word choking sticks in his mind, gripping the back of his brain, tickling his ganglia. Then - 

_she falls boneless to the floor in an unnatural tangle of limbs_

\- he starts to wonder what other things his mind might have suppressed, if maybe those nightmares were a little more real than he thought -

 _It’s Cat, but they’re not in an interrogation room, there’s no fluorescent lights or silvery table. They’re in an alleyway. He can see empty beer bottles on the gravelly pavement, smell alcohol and piss and trash and cigarettes in the air. She’s a little thinner than he remembers her being, leaning closer to waif-like than lean. Her hair’s a little curlier, her shoulders a little broader, her legs a little longer, her arms pocked in a way they shouldn’t be. And she’s calling him_ Mister Dr. Reid _not_ Spencie _, never_ Spencie

\- and _oh god_ that really happened. And _oh god_ he wants Cat dead -

_She killed Mom she killed Mom she killed Mom_

\- wants it more than anything. But she’s locked away in Mount Pleasant Women’s Correctional Facility -

_Maybe I could slip her something? I’d just have to get it past security, use a little sleight of hand_

\- and Spencer Reid isn’t even allowed to visit after everything that happened. And anyway he’s already a murder -

 _Oh god oh_ fuck _, fuck - shit what the_ fuck _do I do?_

\- he can’t kill anyone else. _Anyone else oh god_ he has to turn himself in, make sure he can’t hurt any more people -

_I can’t go back to prison I can’t they’ll kill me I’ll die I can’t go back there_

\- But no, _no_ he can’t do that. His only option is to pretend like it never happened and hope he didn’t leave any physical evidence -

_You didn’t, you cleaned - well ‘dirtied’ - up, remember? That’s why you felt like you’d been crawling around in the trash. You literally did, you cretin_

**-** Yes, that’s what he’ll do. _That’s what I have to do_ , he tells himself, _I have no choice - it’s a matter of life and death. And I’ve saved a lot of people, and I can keep saving a lot of people if I’m not in prison. That makes up for it. It does, it does, right? It has to. It has to._


	4. part 3: reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which spencer returns to work

_“Here begins a short treatise and a comfortable for sinful wretches.”_

_― Margery Kempe, Book 1_

…

He starts putting extra effort into his work, staying late to finish extra consults even though he already gets through more than anyone else due to his reading speed. 

Emily comments on it, tells him he needs to let himself relax every once in a while, so he makes up a response that makes her think he’s working extra to avoid nightmares. Which is admittedly both extremely unhealthy and somewhat true, but she can’t stop him from doing it without being a hypocrite and he knows it. She knows that he’d call her out on it, too, and _god forbid_ she confront her own issues -

_All of us are running from something, this is no different (but it is, and this, too, is something he knows)_

\- so she lets it go. But the truth is they’re not _nightmares_ , per se, and that’s the real reason he wants to avoid them so desperately -

_He’s been having these dreams about finding another Cat to ‘help him out’ (and yes, that’s a euphemism for killing her) because he knows Cat is unreachable in prison. At first, it was just reliving that first kill over and over, waking up half-hard not because he got any kind of sexual pleasure from it, but because excitement and arousal are similar to a sleep-groggy brain._

_It stopped satisfying him quickly, stopped bringing an end to the burning rage that now courses through him most of the time. Then, the dream changed into other women being choked up against that alleyway wall - women he’d seen in passing (or even, shamefully, family members of victims he’d interviewed on cases). But it wasn’t real enough, and he’d just wake up frustrated about not getting his nightly fix._

_So he starts fantasizing about finding the perfect one, the one who looks almost exactly like_ her _, and will surely put an end to these urges when he kills her (won’t she?). He imagines profiling her, deducing what ruse is optimal for getting her to follow him, luring her out to his car, using his gun to force her in_

\- because when he’s not occupied by work or other obligations, he finds himself driving and fantasizing. Driving, despite how much he hates it, because the metro won’t take him where he wants to go -

_And when you do this for real, you won’t be able to take the girl on the metro_

\- He’s pretending he’s doing it to clear his head, to try to relieve the hum of fury that now lives below his skin. And the trips do make the anger abate, just a little, but it’s not from the classical music on the radio or the lull of the engine -

_You’ll have to take her out of the city_

\- He’s spent more time in the driver’s seat over the past two months than he ever has before (he knows, it’s one of those things his brain unconsciously keeps track of, no matter how much he wishes it wouldn’t), bumping over unlit roads and taking in nature -

_Scope out a secluded place where you can spend some time with her, take out every last grievance you have with that bitch Catherine Adams_

\- The anger likes it when he does these things, and if he can’t keep the anger at bay it’ll start affecting his work. People’s lives depend on his work, so it’s very important for him to placate the anger -

_You’re just fantasizing, there’s nothing wrong with that. You won’t actually hurt anyone else, will you? No, no definitely not_

…

He manages to push it down (or at least, keep himself from acting on it) until he’s getting coffee before work one morning and he catches a glimpse of _her_.

She’s perfect - a petite brunette with a lean build and wavy hair. He averts his eyes as soon as he sees her, just another customer in line, because the desire (fueled by rage, and many times stronger than any sexual longing he’s ever felt) bubbling up in his stomach is unbearable when he can do nothing about it -

_At least, not yet_

\- He overhears that her name is Monica and he tries it out on his tongue -

_Monica Monica Monica_

\- but it doesn’t feel right. He lets himself start thinking about her as Cat, imagines her with Cat’s mannerisms and speech patterns and it’s much better, and it starts satisfying something in him dreaming can no longer achieve. 

She’s on his mind all day - the team gets called out on a case, and if he’s being completely honest his mind is on _Monica/Cat_ the whole time. Emily assigns him to breaking a cipher, and usually these types of things are fun for him, capturing his full attention. But he can’t focus on anything other than _Monica/Cat_ and it takes him all too long to crack it - if he’d been working at his usual capacity the unsub would have been identified earlier, the last victim saved. 

It makes him all the more certain that he needs to go through with this, needs to put an end to the rage and the distraction so that he can do his job effectively -

_Monica will simply be a sacrifice for the greater good. She can be Cat for you, and when you kill her all those nasty feelings will go away and everything will go back to normal. She’ll be dying for the sake of you continuing to save people, and isn’t that the best way to die? For the sake of others?_

\- He doesn’t think about -

_Each time an addict needs a fix, they need more of the drug to get off, so his crimes will most likely get much worse_

\- because he’s been clean for years -

_Except for Mexico, but that’s Cat’s fault too_

\- he’s not an addict anymore ~~even though he trashed his apartment looking for a fix just a few months ago~~ , so the metaphor doesn’t apply.

And he definitely doesn’t think about how killing surrogates never works, because he’s so _sure_ it will. He can feel it, it’ll work. 

It has to work, because these emotions are unbearable and he doesn’t know what else to do with them. 

(And he’s not sure what he’ll do if it doesn’t)

…

Once the case is resolved, Spencer starts going to that coffee shop every morning, driving so he has access to his car, leaving home early just so he can sit there for a bit -

_Increase your chances of seeing her again_

\- until one day she reappears dressed in a blouse and pencil skirt, enraging him further with how put-together she is.

He knows he can’t take her right now - he’ll be caught on CCTV as the last person to speak to her, and he doesn’t know enough about her to construct a ruse with a high enough probability of working. But he has enough time left before work to tail her for at least twenty minutes, and he’s qualified in covert operations, so he’s confident an untrained civilian won’t notice him, especially since -

_Good thing you lucked out on the ‘beta male’ front - at least it’s good for situations like this_

\- he’s non-threatening, even after prison, if a little unkempt. 

_Monica/Cat_ waits for her coffee - light roast with extra room for cream - fixes it up with sugar, cinnamon, and half-and-half, then walks back out of the café. He tracks her out of the corner of his eye, follows once he’s sure it won’t be suspicious. She walks three blocks down to an office building, which she enters, greeting a few (presumed) colleagues on the way. 

…

He feigns exhaustion -

 _If_ only _it were feigned_

\- at work, giving him an excuse to duck out a little early. He finds himself waiting outside _Monica/Cat_ ’s office, far enough away that she won’t notice him, but close enough that he can keep watch for when she leaves (it’s a corporate building, so he presumes she’ll get off work no earlier than five. He arrives at quarter-til, so he’s fairly certain he isn’t waiting in vain).

She emerges at five-twenty-six tired from the work day, but in no particular rush to get home -

_Relaxed, but also put-together_

\- She drives a little white hybrid -

_Conscious about the environment - aware of social and political issues?_

\- teetering right around the speed-limit, fiddling with the radio every so often -

_Neither overly cautious nor reckless_

\- she lives in an apartment complex that’s on the nicer end -

_CCTV’s good in the area, you’ll have to grab her from somewhere else_

\- He sits in his car down the street, just watching, until her lights go off and he presumes she’s gone to sleep. Then, he goes home and turns the intel over and over in his head until it lulls him to sleep.

…

He gets lucky -

_It’s a sign this is what he’s supposed to do_

\- He’s followed _Monica/Cat_ to a mom-and-pop bakery - no security cameras, so he felt safe going inside - outside of DC proper, and has just watched her put up her dishes and head out to her car, sit in it for a few minutes, then comes rushing back inside. He squints at her - it’s very out of character for her to be so frantic.

She’s stopping by each of the occupied tables, growing more and more distressed when the patrons keep shaking their heads. Finally, she reaches him and asks _hey, um, my car just died? Do you by any chance have jumper cables with you?_

He doesn’t, but -

_No cameras. She’s asked practically everyone in here, you’re dressed super averagely - no one will remember your face_

\- he tells her he does. 

She’s so relieved that she just listens to everything he says (of course, his unassuming appearance doesn’t hurt). He tells her to hop in the passenger seat, that she can just ride with him over to her car since he has to drive _his_ over anyway -

_You didn’t even need to use your gun_

\- But then he passes her car without stopping, locks the doors and heads straight for the highway. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he smirks as he hears her start to panic. Even her voice sounds like Cat’s, unlike that other woman’s, and -

_Are you insane!? Pull over, let me out!_

_Not so funny now is it, huh Cat?_

_Let me out, you maniac!_

_Being trapped and not knowing what’ll happen to you. You did that to me. And to my mother. Now you’re gonna get a taste of your own medicine, you bitch_

_That’s it, I’m calling the police!_

\- He pulls out his revolver from where he’s concealed it -

_I wouldn’t_

\- He doesn’t even need to point it at her, she freezes as soon as she sees it, starts blubbering -

_I - I’ll do whatever you want - money, sex, anything! Just let me go. Please, just let me go_

_I can’t do that, Monica_

_Wha…? H - how do you know my name?_

_You’re helping a lot of people by letting me do this, by being Cat for me_

_Wh - H - I don’t -_

_She killed my mom. She’s in prison, though, so there’s nothing I can do to her. But I’m angry, and it’s getting in the way of my ability to do my job. I’m a profiler for the FBI, you know? I catch arsonists, kidnappers, serial killers…a lot of people’s lives depend on me being able to do my job_

_I - killing me won’t make you feel better, I promise! You’ll be just like those guys you arrest, you don’t want that, do you? I can tell you don’t want to hurt anybody, just let me go and you can get some help, please, please just -_

_Shhhh. We’re almost there._

…

Once it’s over and she’s lying in the dirt, black bruises forming around her delicate little neck, he looks down at her and feels relieved, like he’s ridded the world of some horrible evil -

_Cat’s evil. I wish I believed in hell, so I could relish in the knowledge that even after death she’d suffer eternal damnation. But I don’t, and either way the world of the living is better off without her_

\- But he thinks she’d have looked so much better in a little sleeveless dress with silver cuffs bound tightly around her wrists. So much more like she did when he arrested her. 

In a moment of weakness, he finds himself walking into a sex shop - a seedy one, very much unlike the higher-end stores he’s visited before - and paying cash for a few pairs of handcuffs. Then, he walks aimlessly until he stumbles upon a thrift store, where he picks up a few dresses he decides are _close enough_ -

_Stocking up?_

\- pointedly ignoring the fact that he feels the need to buy so many.

…

_Victim is Abrielle Carballo, a 33-year old divorcee and mother of two. She was found in Virginia, just outside of DC, by some hikers near an ungated service road on Sunday morning (see witness reports below). COD is manual strangulation, no DNA or prints were recovered, at time of discovery she had been dead an estimated 20 hours. No sign of sexual trauma._

_She was found handcuffed and wearing only a blue sleeveless dress. Her family and friends all indicated that this dress did not belong to her. No other clothing was recovered - it is assumed the perpetrator took it with him, though he may have since gotten rid of it._

_She was reported missing on Saturday night when she did not return to her parent’s home to collect her children after leaving them in their care while she ran errands. As per protocol, a missing person’s report could not yet be filed, as she hadn’t been missing 48 hours._

_The specific MO and care taken towards removing physical evidence indicate an experienced perpetrator - possibly a serial offender. No similar crimes were reported within our precinct, but when we broadened the search to include DC and DC-adjacent precincts, we discovered two other murders with near-identical MOs that we suspect are linked to the Carballo case._

_The case is being transferred to federal jurisdiction, as one of the murders occurred in DC and the other two in Virginia._


	5. part 4: the case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which DC has a serial killer

_“Lost are we, and are only so far punished_

_that without hope we live on in desire”_

_― Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy_

…

The case is local, Emily says, and _the obvious_ doesn’t even occur to him at first. It’s not until a familiar face appears on the screen in the conference room that his blood runs cold -

_This is Abrielle Carballo, she was found dead near a service road just north of DC two days ago. COD is manual strangulation, and as you can see she was handcuffed pre-mortem. The dress she was wearing did not belong to her. When the local PD looked into similar cases, they found Layla Price, who was found just west of DC two months earlier, and Amira Jackson, who was found just inside the southern boundary about seven weeks before that - this now a federal case, and since it’s local we’ll be handling it on our own_

_No significant acceleration between kills_

_He crossed jurisdictional lines - definitely organized_

_Look how similar they all are in appearance - they_ must _be surrogates_

_He felt compelled to change their clothing into the sleeveless dress - he’s likely enacting a fantasy_

_Or he could be trying to relive something that happened with the object of his rage_

\- Spencer’s skin crawls with how frighteningly accurate that is, and he can only hope it doesn’t show on his face before he gets a hold on his emotions - the most important thing right now is making sure they don’t figure it out -

_(why? Why is that so important to you, Spencer, don’t you want to catch the unsub?)_

\- So he tries to lead them in a different direction -

_Rage? How do we know it’s not a sexual fantasy?_

_No sign of sexual assault_

_He could be impotent_

\- even though it twists his stomach to even consider any of this being sexually motivated. He spins tangents that interrupt their thoughts, projecting a guise of helpfulness when all he’s really doing is covering his own ass - leading them down fruitless pathways, inventing false analyses when they veer too close to the truth.

…

He ends up visiting the morgue, hovering over Abrielle’s body -

_No, it’s Cat’s body, remember? She had to die because Cat hurt your mom and this is the only way, Spencer, this is the only way. Don’t forget that_

\- the last time he saw her the flush of life hadn’t quite left yet. He didn’t stick around longer than he needed to -

 _Because if you look too long they stop being Cat, you start to notice the subtle differences. Don’t look too long or think too hard, Spencer, or else_ this _will stop working. You don’t want that, do you?_

\- But she looks so different dead that it doesn’t rattle him - at least no more than seeing dead bodies usually does. Because when she’s like this - lying rigid and still on a metal slab, filled with the pallor of death and the stiffness of rigor mortis - it’s easy to forget that the vessel of her body once held a person. 

He knows the ME won’t have found any physical evidence, but his heart still skips a beat every time she speaks -

_You didn’t make a mistake. Everything was perfect, there’s no evidence. They can’t connect this to you_

_(But the team has built a profile on less before, and he knows it)_

\- There’s a note about how deep the bruising around her neck is, about how _the unsub_ squeezed harder than necessary and most likely held on for a while after she was already dead, if the bruising pattern is anything to go by.

Rossi comments about rage and overkill, and Spencer can’t find anything to say to counter it -

_It’s completely true, after all._ _You had to be absolutely sure she was dead, yes, but that’s not why you kept going, was it?_

_You’re angry. You’re angry you’re angry you’re so goddamn angry_

\- there’s a nagging fear that he _won’t get out of this_ building in the back of his mind, but he pushes it away. He knows this is the only option. He doesn’t have a choice, and doubting himself isn’t helpful at all.

…

Emily assigns him to the geographic profile once he and Rossi get back from the ME’s office, and as soon as he starts pushing pins into the map he sees it - 

_Even an expert in this particular field can’t escape the subconscious, apparently - it’s like when you_ know _you’re taking a sugar pill, and still experience the placebo effect anyway. The brain loves to lie to itself_

_(And maybe he should think a little harder about that last part, about lying to himself. But he doesn’t even consider it)_

\- His apartment falls right within _the unsub_ ’s comfort zone, less than half a mile east of dead center. 

It covers a huge area, though, since the crime scenes were all so far apart. He tells the team the comfort zone is broader than it actually is -

 _Though he suspects that his own pre-existing knowledge might be skewing the analysis. The calculable comfort zone based on the three data points may very well be larger than his estimation - he’s likely unconsciously including the rest of the data he’s_ not supposed to know about _, as an FBI agent at least_

\- that he can’t narrow it down much past _he lives or works in DC proper._

The team starts asking about roads near the kill/dump sites -

_He’s most likely using a car or van to abduct and transport them - he would need a personal vehicle to access these areas_

_He abducted them without anyone noticing during a time when he knew they wouldn’t be reported missing for at least a couple hours - he most likely stalked them and waited for an opportunity_

_I’m not so sure about that - the kills are too evenly spaced for him to be opportunistic. I’d say he used a ruse to get them in his vehicle - likely a car, if they got in willingly. If he’s smart, and we know he is, he might have been able to tailor the ruse to his victims_

_What, you mean like_ profiling _them?_

_(tooclose tooclosetoocloseohno)_

\- Spencer shudders internally, and (for the first time ever) mentally curses his team for being so good at their jobs. It’s _exactly_ what he did and -

 _Idiot. God, you’re so_ stupid _! You made it so_ easy _for them, such an easy, boring unsub. I can see the headlines now, “Spencer Reid - former criminal profiler - caught by his own team in less than 24 hours!”_

 _Nonono that’s not true at all! They have no idea,_ no idea _, it’s you. None at all. And you have to make sure it stays that way, got it? Got it, Spencer?_

\- all he has to do is keep them off his tail without making it seem like that’s what he’s doing. That’s all.

Easier said than done.

…

The team has hit a brick wall with the case and it sends waves of relief flooding through him. All they have is -

_A white male between the ages of twenty-five and forty. He’s extremely intelligent, but rage driven - he’s able to abduct them without anyone noticing and leaves no physical evidence at the crime scenes, but redressing and cuffing them is a compulsion. It’s likely he’s aware it makes him easier to profile, but can’t stop himself from doing it._

_He has knowledge of law enforcement procedures, though he isn’t necessarily a law enforcement officer. The key to finding him is figuring out who these women are surrogates for - she’ll most likely lead us directly to him._

_In the meantime, brunette women in their late twenties to early thirties should remain vigilant - he stalks his victims, so make sure they know to look out for any suspicious men or vehicles, thank you_

\- None of it is wrong - and while it’s definitely too close to _spot on_ for Spencer to be comfortable with it, none of it actually helps them narrow down the suspect pool to a manageable number. 

He steals glances at the team as the furrow their brows and flip back and forth through case files, desperately searching but finding no answers -

_See? Everything is gonna be just fine_

\- Just then, Luke sucks in a breath and looks up from his files - 

_Hey guys? This is a pretty sophisticated MO, yes?_

_Uh,_ yeah _, I’d say so_

_You think it’s possible he has earlier victims? We didn’t look for other strangulation cases after these three identical ones turned up, but what if he didn’t start redressing them right away?_

\- It fills him with dread because he knows _exactly_ what Garcia’s about to find. _Monica/Cat_ pops up on the screen -

_This is Monica Wilson. She went missing two months before our first victim and was found dead a few days later in the woods east of DC. She was wearing her own clothing, but…_

_Look at her, this is definitely our guy_

\- He swallows nervously, disguising it as horror and disgust with _the unsub’s_ actions -

_(and maybe that’s true too, deep in his subconscious)_

\- but the worst is still yet to come -

_Guys, there’s a witness!_

…

He’s read the witness report - he knows the guy didn’t get a good look at _the unsub_ , that he didn’t even see enough for a sketch artist to produce anything meaningful. But, still, his palms are sweaty as he anticipates the man’s arrival.

He knows he can’t let the man get a good look at him, and it’s making him nervous. _More_ nervous - he’s already worried the team will be able to pull more information out of him than the PD officers could.

Spencer doesn’t remember the man _at all_ and it scares him -

 _Was I so focused on_ Monica/Cat _that I didn’t pay attention to my surroundings? Was I really that careless?_

\- He tells Emily he wants to keep working on the geographic profile so he can stay in the conference room, but can’t stop himself from creeping over to listen in to the interview - hiding behind a corner where the rest of the team can’t see - 

_She was going around all the tables and asking for a jump - her car died, apparently. She left with someone, a man I’m pretty sure, but I dunno how much help I can be. She must’ve asked everyone in the restaurant, and it was pretty crowded - I remember her leaving, but I really wasn’t paying attention to who she was with, I’m sorry_

_You might remember more than you think, can you close your eyes for me?_

\- He can only hope the man truly doesn’t remember - he was wearing different clothes and had his hair styled differently than normal, but that won’t help him if the witness remembers his face -

_It wasn’t luck you idiot! That chance was too good to be true, and you should have known it - what’re you gonna do now, huh!? No way can you keep going, they’re way too close_

_Um…he was tall, at least six feet._

_What about his hair, can you picture the color?_

_…dark, maybe? No, maybe it was lighter…he wasn’t blond is all I remember - a blond would have stood out_

_And his clothing?_

_Um…no, sorry. He looked really normal, I guess. Nothing really stood out._

_Okay, let’s move onto the parking lot. Did you see his car?_

_I think maybe it was an older car? I’m really not sure though, I wasn’t wearing my glasses_

_That’s okay, you’ve been very helpful_

\- it’s not a lot, but it’s still way too much. Way, _way_ too much -

_Shit! What the fuck are you gonna do now, huh?_

\- But he doesn’t have time to think about it because the team’s shifting around, getting ready to head back to the conference room where he’s supposed to be but isn’t. He hurries back, making like he was staring at the map, lost in thought, all along.

 _It’ll be okay,_ he thinks, _if I just stop, the case will go cold and this will all go away. And I can stop if I want to - and I do want to! I can stop anytime. Anytime I want._

There are no better lies than the ones we tell to ourselves. 


	6. part 5: dormant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which spencer finds relief elsewhere.

_“For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble.”_

_― Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy_

…

He leads them in circles for two weeks more before the higher ups tell them it’s time to call it quits - Emily calls them all into the conference room and sits them down, saying _we’ve been ordered to move on to other cases_ with the steel air of a unit chief, letting none of her own somber defeatedness leak through. Spencer masks his sigh of relief with one of disappointment, ducking his head to conceal the slight smirk he can’t quite bite back - he can’t help but feel proud of himself, can’t help but to feel like he’s _won._

He decides that it feels good to actually win something for once, especially after a life that’s felt like one loss after another after another -

 _See? So what a witness sort-of saw you - they still don’t have enough evidence to figure it out! You’re better than them,_ smarter _than them, Spencer - they can’t outthink you_

\- He goes home and doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he’s not working his own case, realizes he’s been spending all his free time stalking his victims and scoping out locations and keeping the authorities off his tail -

_Just one more, it’ll be fine - they’ll reopen the case for a little while, but so what? You outsmarted them the first time, you can do it again_

\- This feeling is familiar, this itch -

_I need it I need it I need it_

\- _I don’t_ need _it_ , Spencer reminds himself, _I just_ want _it. I can resist, I know I can_

It makes him want to shoot up. It makes him want to drink. It makes him want to wander the streets and duck into coffee shops and libraries and clothing stores, _searching searching searching_ for the perfect one -

 _Nonono, I don’t need it. I don’t need it! I-I’m not a monster, I’m not like_ her. _I can stop - I_ have _stopped. Never again_

\- He paces around his apartment for hours, tugging at his hair and twisting his hands together and worrying at his lip, checking and rechecking hiding places that are still so painfully empty until he just _can’t take it_ anymore. Spencer throws on his coat and storms off into the night, walking aimlessly and ignoring the half-concerned half-fearful glances from passers-by -

_Get your hands on something - anything!_

\- The syringes feel like shame as the nurse hands them over, a sad smile gracing her lips as she sees the way his hands shake with desperation, the way he stares down at the floor and curls in on himself -

 _I wonder what it’s like to work this job every day, to hand drug paraphernalia over to addicts and know what ~~we’re~~ they’re going to do with it, know that some of ~~us~~ them might be dead in the morning after taking too much. It’s all about ‘minimizing harm,’ but it still must be _so hard _to see all these people and know what ~~we’re~~ they’re going to do as soon as ~~we~~ they get outta here. I’m so sorry, miss nurse, I’m so sorry for not being strong enough. I’m so sorry I just couldn’t stay away anymore_

\- The heroin comes in powder form, encased in a little plastic bag and so, _so_ tempting. All long time ago Spencer promised himself that he’d never let it get this far, that he’d never let himself get desperate enough for street heroin, that he’d never let himself run out of the good stuff - that was before he cleaned up and decided he was done, dumped it all and promised himself _I’m never going back._ It’s been more than ten years since then and the only taste he’s had since was down in Mexico, and that was against his will -

 _But it doesn’t matter, does it? A taste is a taste is a taste, and you’ve been wanting it since then, haven’t you Spencer? It’s time to stop running away - the last time you tried to avoid this, you ended up getting trashed on cheap brandy and_ murdering _someone for fucks sake! Just give in, I promise it’s better this way_

\- The next thing he knows he’s in his apartment, sitting on the couch and leaning over a spoonful of yellowy powder, flicking a lighter underneath and watching it melt -

_I’ve gotta call up a dealer and get my hands on some Dilaudid for next time. Who knows what the hell this shit is cut with?_

\- _The syringe looks so pretty when it’s full_ , Spencer thinks as he rolls up his sleeve, pulling the blue rubber tourniquet from the needle exchange tight around his arm, sinking back into the couch as he lines up the syringe filled with his own personal poison and depresses the plunger, flooding his system with C21H23NO5 -

_Ahhh, I had forgotten how good this feels_

\- and erasing all thoughts of _Catherine Adams_ and _overkill_ and _surrogates_ and _geographic profiles_ and _there’s a witness!_

(at least for now)

…

Spencer hates that being high at work is nothing new, that hiding shaking hands and mental fog and little glass vials (because he ditched the heroin as soon as he found a dealer who would sell him what he’s really itching for) just feels like falling back into a dearly missed routine - one that is both hated and loved, one that he just can’t escape from. 

He tucks himself away in the bathroom during lunch and shoots up, stumbles back to his desk with pupils constricted to pinpricks, desperately hoping his teammates won’t notice (desperately hoping they _will_ \- this feeling is familiar too, reminds him of coming back to work after being abducted by Hankel and wanting them to help even though he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t’ve accepted it anyway) -

 _I’m high and I’m a murder, don’t you see? I’m the unsub! Me. Spencer Reid -_ I’m _the unsub! Are you seriously this blind? How can you not_ see _, how the_ fuck _are you missing this?_

\- They don’t notice and that’s good because he doesn’t want them to. Doesn’t want them to look any closer because he’s afraid of what they’ll find, afraid of what’ll happen to him -

 _They’ll_ kill me _in prison, don’t you see? It doesn’t matter if I get three-to-five or five-to-ten or twenty-five-to-life or capital punishment. It’s a death sentence either way, and I’m not ready to die. I’m not ready to die_

\- So he shoves his hands in his pockets when they grow too unsteady, pushes his ~~friends~~ teammates away so they won’t notice his fickle moods -

_The notice anyway, he knows they do. But they write it off as latent trauma from prison and bad cases digging up old scars and his mother’s condition declining. All of those things are true, but they’re a little off base - that’s good, though. The most convincing lies are built upon truths_

\- The drugs take care of the cravings for a while, they tame down the anger to a low simmer that’s easy enough to ignore - 

_Mom is dead_

_(uncap the syringe)_

_Cat killed her_

_(draw back your poison)_

_She killed mom she killed mom she killed mom_

_(tie the tourniquet)_

_She has to die - it’s the only way, I need her dead_

_(flick out the air bubbles)_

_Can’t get to Cat, but lookalikes work just as well_

_(find a vein that’s not too abused)_

_It’ll work again, won’t it? I’ll feel better if I kill one more, just one more_

_(line up the needle)_

_Remember what it felt like when their hyoids snapped? Didn’t that feel good, Spencer? Didn’t that feel good?_

_(push down the plunger)_

_Wh…what was I thinking about?_

\- But tolerance creeps up on him quickly, even more so than the first time because his body remembers, of course it does. And then he’s dreaming about Cat’s satisfied little smirk and his mother’s dead body and thin little necks that felt _so fucking good_ beneath his hands - it made him feel _powerful_ and that’s not something he’s used to after a lifetime of being beat down again and again, of Russian roulette and watching his girlfriend die and getting thrown in prison (and being unable to help his mother, all the way ‘til the bitter end). It’s not something he’s used to and _feeling powerful_ is more addicting than the Dilaudid could ever be.

He’s needs to do it again, to find another one and feel the life leave her as he squeezes and squeezes and squeezes, holding on long after her windpipe is collapsed and she’s limp and lifeless in his arms -

 _How do you like that, huh? Huh, Cat? I win. I win this time, not you - not anyone else!_ Me _\- I win!_

\- But he knows it’s too risky to do it in DC and however much his brain says _they won’t catch you, you’re too smart for that!_ Spencer knows they’ve caught geniuses before. He can’t get comfortable, can’t let himself feel invincible because that’s when the unsubs mess up and get caught -

_Come on - mess up and get caught? You’re not some average, run-of-the-mill unsub you know. You’re better than that - the team was forced to let go of the case last time, they won’t get any further if you do it again! You’re safe_

_Nonono not safe, I’m not safe - it’s too dangerous! I’ll get thrown back in prison if they catch me, you know - I can’t go back there, I just can’t!_

\- So he waits, letting the need build and build and build as he tries to think of a solution through his drug-addled haze, biting his nails and pulling his hair and damn-near smashing his head against the wall until -

Until he’s out walking late one night during a case, trying to clear his head enough to sleep or have a sudden revelation or do _anything_ that’s not sitting alone in a hotel room getting high and fantasizing about watching the life fade from Cat’s eyes. The foreign streets swirl around him, the lights of some city far from home flashing before his eyes as he puts one foot in front of the other, and one foot in front of the other -

_Hey baby, wanna have some fun?_

_N-no, sorry_

\- The solution comes to him as he stumbles into an alleyway, leaning his head back against the filthy brick wall as the working girl’s words echo in his ears. He thinks about that first Cat he killed, about how the team still doesn’t know about her, about how poor police follow-up typically is for high-risk victims, about how he’s thousands of miles from home and how -

_They’ll never figure it out. Just don’t hit the same place twice and you’re home free - it’s perfect!_

\- He’ll have to forgo the dress and hand-cuffs, of course, but he can deal with that if it means he gets his fix. And he won’t even have to go through the trouble of stalking them, luring them away from safety - these women will follow him, and it’ll be _so easy_ -

_I thought you liked a challenge? Getting lazy, Spencie-boy?_

_Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up_

_What if it doesn’t work? What’ll you do then, huh?_

_It’ll work - it will! I know it will, it worked before. It worked before…_

_Your body count’s already at five, idiot. If it worked before, then why -_

_SHUT UP! It’ll work this time. It will_

\- And so he spends the night _searching searching searching_ until he finds her - the thin little boxy-figured brunette who smirks at him when he approaches, says _You lookin’ for a good night, hun?_ and cocks her head _just so_ -

_How much?_

_Depends. What’re you lookin’ for?_

_Um…just, ah…_

_I’ll blow you for fifty - how’s that sound?_

_G-good, um…yeah, that sounds good_

_You got a car?_

_N-no, um…I’m from out of town, so…_

_I know a place. Follow me, hun_

…

Her body lies crumpled on the pavement afterward, contorted in a grotesque position only the dead can hold. He doesn’t waste any time looking at her - it’s too risky, he’s unfamiliar with the place and the typical pattern of foot traffic - just grabs her by the arms and drags her further into the alleyway, almost tripping on her hair at first. He pulls her towards a dumpster that looks like it doesn’t get touched too often - it’s filthy and disgusting and makes his skin crawl, but Spencer heaves her body into it and pulls the rotting bags of waste over her slight form, hiding her from sight and delaying discovery as long as possible.

And then it’s done. He wipes his hands on his pants and continues on his way, his head finally clearing a little now that _the itch_ has been satisfied (for now) - it feels like maybe he’ll be able to see something new if he looks over the case files when he gets back to his hotel room, like maybe this case won’t be so bad after all, maybe he’ll get to go home soon.

With any luck, the case will be wrapped up quickly and he’ll be long gone by the time anyone stumbles upon the girl.


	7. surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which spencer resigns himself to his fate.

_“Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.”_

_― Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy_

...

It’s fifteen days into the team’s newest venture into the mind of a serial killer, and Spencer can’t for the life of him get his thoughts in order. He can’t get his thoughts in order because he’d arranged for a transaction to go down exactly fourteen days ago and normally it would be fine that a case caught him off guard and forced him to reschedule - 

_I’m out. Shit! I’m out! I’moutI’moutI’mout_

\- because he typically keeps a few extra vials on hand for that exact reason. And his mother is dead now, which means he’s not paying for her care anymore, which means he’s not nearly as strap for cash as he was the last time he dealt with this problem - he can afford to stock up a little, even with a dosage that’s admittedly been getting a little out of hand.

The problem is that this case came only two days after the last one, and it’s just surpassed two weeks in length - Spencer keeps the little glass vials tucked away in his messenger back for comfort’s sake, but they’re all so _painfully_ empty by now. That clear liquid is the only thing keeping him sane anymore, and he drew back the last drops in his hotel room last night. He remembers letting his head fall back against the bathroom wall as that blissful oblivion crept _up up up_ from the crook of his arm to finally quiet his brain. He remembers praying to the God he doesn’t believe in for this to be over soon, for _the case_ to be over soon so that he can get home and call up his dealer and arrange another drop -

_Nonono - I must have more. There’s gotta be more, I can’t be out! I can’t do this. I can’t I can’t -_

_Shut up, idiot! Bitching about it isn’t going to make it any better, now get your sorry ass back out there and solve the case. You are a genius, aren’t you? Solve the damn case, and then you can go home and get your fix, alright?_

\- Spencer can’t think without the drugs anymore, can’t think about anything except the drugs (and _that other thing_ ) anymore. He can’t hold his pen, can’t focus his eyes on the map in front of him, can’t deal with the police hotline ringing every five seconds and his teammates’s voices saying _Hey Garcia_ and _Have we looked into the hospital staff?_ and _Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way_ and -

_For godssake, why can’t you all just shut up!? SHUT! UP!_

\- And then there’s silence. Beautiful, blissful silence. It’s so much of a relief that Spencer just lets out a trembling exhale and turns back to his map, his chest heaving as he tries desperately to focus himself on the mess of colors in front of him, as he tries desperately to rub the fog out of his eyes -

_Spence…are you alright?_

\- A voice says behind him, disturbing the quiet and sending fury thrumming through his veins. He whirls around and turns to face the voice, a growl building in his throat even as he recognizes JJ’s familiar features. They’re all staring at him and it feels like their eyes are burning through his unsteady form, like they’re accusing him of something terrible and he’s confused because _why are they angry? Can’t they see that I just need some peace and quiet?_

JJ inches closer, raises a hand to his arm before he can stop her - before he knows it, he’s slapping her hand away and flinching back. He can see them all pitying him and it makes him impossibly angrier. He wants them all to go away, he wants them to stop -

_Don’t fucking touch me, Jennifer_

\- He snarls, practically bearing his teeth as he glares at her and turns back to his map like nothing happened, ignoring the six concerned faces sharing glances behind him. It’s quiet again and he can’t get high right now, but he can take solace in the _quiet_ at least. Spencer closes his eyes and relishes in the silence for a moment, leaning forward until his forehead presses against the cool surface of the shiny map in front of him, fiddling with his shirt cuffs and pulling them _down down down_ until they nearly cover his palms. 

A chill is starting to rise up his back and the beginning of a cold sweat is starting to bead on his brow. He brings his hand up to keep drawing algorithms across the paper, ignoring the way the lines waver - they betray the tremor that’s been building in his hands ever since he pulled the vials from his bag two days ago and realized there wasn’t nearly enough to last. There’s a hum in the back of his brain that says _I need it I need it I need it!_ and sometimes it’s hard to tell what it’s referring to, but he’s pretty sure it’s the Dilaudid right now. 

He’s _very_ sure that he needs Dilaudid right now, but as long as it’s quiet he can work towards getting it. As long as it’s quiet, he can focus just enough to keep working the case, and he _needs_ to work the case if he’s gonna get back to his dealer within twenty-four hours. As long as it’s quiet, he can keep working on the geographic profile and thinking about the MO and spinning theories faster than any of his teammates could ever hope to -

Someone bursts into the conference room and says _We’ve got a hostage situation at an urgent care clinic!_ in a voice that’s about a hundred decibels too loud. Spencer jolts at the noise and his hand drags across the paper - 

_It’s ruined! It’s…it’s all ruined!_

\- And everyone’s leaping into action, readjusting their guns as they stand, their chairs screeching as the scrape across the floor and -

_Shutupshutupshutup!_

\- Someone brings a hand down on his shoulder, tugging him away from his ruined map and saying _Reid I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but we have a job to do -_

He doesn’t want to be touched right now, can’t _tolerate_ being touched right now. But it’s like his voice is frozen in his throat and he can’t tell the person (Matt, he registers in the back of his foggy mind) to stop. He’s withdrawing and irate and overstimulated and he doesn’t have access to anything that can make it better right now - he wants, no he _needs_ it all to stop. 

And then he’s struggling against the hand holding him, he’s running back over to his map and trying to rub away the stray line even though he knows his efforts are in vain. He knows that, but he wants to cry when the mark won’t go away, so he keeps _rubbing rubbing rubbing_ because he doesn’t know what else to do. And then the friction and his frantic movements tear the paper and this _noise_ tears its way out of his throat as he tries and inevitably fails to put it back together.

 _Spencer - Spencer, stop!_ echoes in his ears and hands are touching him again and -

_Stop! Let me go. Go away - stopstopstop!_

\- He doesn’t know if he said it out loud or not, but the hands just grip tighter as he thrashes against them. And then he’s reaching out for anything he can get his hands on, tearing pictures from the case board and letting pins fall to the floor as he screams -

 _Let go of me! Fucking let_ go _of me!_

\- And then someone far away says _We need to go!_ and someone close says _Fine, you win_ and then the hands are finally gone. He hears footsteps walking away and that’s it - it’s quiet again, and Spencer lets out a sigh of relief as he sinks to the floor in a heap of sweaty, trembling limbs.

… 

The team comes back from the hostage situation and skirt around him like he’s a wild animal, pointedly keeping their voices down and pretending not to be keeping an eye on him as he sorts and re-sorts his files. Spencer refuses to look at them, refuses to acknowledge the shame that started twisting in his belly as soon as he caught his breath and came back to himself - 

_They think I’m crazy_

_That’s because you_ are _crazy, idiot. You’ve murdered, what, seven or eight people now? And that’s not even counting the ones that were legal - Dowd, Hankel -_

_Shut up. Please, just…_

_You know I’m right. What’s the point in denying it anymore?_

\- He’s sweaty and shaking. The first waves of nausea are beginning to creep up his throat, and all he can do is hope that the team’s silence means that this is gonna be another one of those things that everyone just…pretends never happened -

 _Like when you poisoned those men? Like when you tried to kill Cat? You know, the real one? If they figure it out, figure out who killed all those women, do you think they’ll just…forget? That they’ll just pretend it never happened because you’re their friend? You’re delusional, Spencer - you think they’re your friends? They left you in prison for all those months, and don’t think for_ one second _that they won’t do it again -_

_Please…please just stop_

\- He finally throws up ten minutes after the jet reaches cruising altitude, holes himself up in the cramped airplane bathroom for a little too long and then pretends like nothing happened, like his teammates aren’t watching his every move. He sits down in the seat furthest away from everyone else, leans the side of his head against the window and feels the cool glass against his feverish skin. Bile creeps up his throat and Spencer swallows it back down, regretting his decision to peel himself off of the bathroom floor and stumble back out into the main cabin.

Emily sits down across from him and he cringes, knowing there’s no going back now - he pretends not to notice her, but he can see her stern expression out of the corner of his eye and it’s impossible to ignore.

She lets him wallow in his misery for a moment more before sighing and clearing her throat. _Spencer,_ she says with a hint of sympathy in her voice, _You know that I can’t ignore what happened today._

 _I don’t know what you’re talking about,_ he replies on instinct, immediately sucking in a breath and cringing and the words. Emily doesn’t say anything, just sits and waits for him to come up with a better response. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to think through the constant thrum of need and the nausea turning in his belly, before finally settling on _Why not?_

He knows it’s childish. Emily knows that too, just looks at him and huffs out a long sigh of disappointment. _Spencer,_ she repeats, _I’m gonna give you one more chance - tell me what’s going on._

Her tone leaves no room for argument - he knows as soon as he hears it that it’s an order, not a question. But he can’t tell her about what he’s done, and he doesn’t _want_ to tell her about his relapse, doesn’t want her to be disappointed (even though he can tell that she already is). So he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his seat, pretending she’s not profiling his obvious defensiveness as he mutters _I’m fine. Nothing’s going on._

 _Spencer,_ she tries one more time, _I’m asking you as a friend - what’s going on?_

 _I said ‘I’m fine,’_ he snaps, unable to hold back his withdrawal-driven ire any longer, _Nothing’s going on, Emily, what part of that do you not understand?_

She just gives him this _look_ , this _look_ that says _we both know that’s a lie -_ Spencer sniffs and averts his eyes, hiding his trembling hands under his armpits as his skin crawls. There’s a part of him that wants to tell her, that wants her to slap the cuffs on his wrists and drag him away like he knows he deserves. The larger part of him is too afraid - too afraid of going back to prison, yes, but also too afraid of what she’ll think. Of what all of them will think. He doesn’t want them to stop loving him. As selfish as it may be, he doesn’t want them to stop loving him -

_I’m scared_

_You’re pathetic_

_\- Reid,_ Prentiss jolts him back out of his thoughts, nothing but Unit Chief seriousness this time, _It’s Friday night - I’m giving you the weekend to clear your head, but I need to see you in my office on Monday morning. Eight a.m. sharp._

And then she pushes herself out of her seat and walks away, leaving him alone with his thoughts, alone with his cravings and withdrawal and fear and misery (and loneliness). It’s at moments like these that Spencer wishes for his mom, wishes for her warm embrace and raspy reading voice. But then he remembers - if his mom were still around, he wouldn’t have gotten himself into this mess in the first place.

He feels the urge to vomit coming back with a vengeance and drags himself to his feet, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he hurries down the aisle, desperately hoping he’ll make it in time. 

_He’s been pushing all of us away since prison,_ he hears someone say as he hovers over the toilet bowl, _I’ve been trying to reach out to him, but it just seems like it’s been making it worse and now he’s…yeah. I just…how do you help someone who doesn’t want to be helped? How do we help him, Jayje?_

And then Spencer vomits, and he doesn’t hear anything else after that.

…

Spencer manages to score a meeting with his dealer only two hours after he gets back home - the bastard sees desperate written all over him and overcharges him, but Spencer really can’t be arsed to care about that right now. He has his fix and he shoots up the moment he gets inside his apartment, barely managing to close the front door before he’s scrambling for a fresh syringe and preparing his fix. 

And that’s how his weekend goes - he barely lets himself come down between hits, just keeps filling up syringe after syringe until he’s dancing right on the edge of an overdose. The last time he really binged like this was right after Georgia, right after Hankel - he knows he shouldn’t be doing it, but _damn_ does it feel good in the moment. He’s so incredibly off his face for those two and a half days that there’s no room to think about Cat or all the women he killed or what Emily wants to talk about at eight o’clock on Monday morning.

Eight o’clock comes and goes while Spencer is sleeping off a weekend-long high, curled up in bed and still just hazy enough not to feel the weight of his many many problems crashing down on him. 

It doesn’t last, of course. It never does.

It’s almost ten when he finally stirs awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes in blissful ignorance to his predicament. And then his eyes start to focus on the clock, they glide over the hands and see the hour hand on nine and the minute hand on fifty-seven - there’s a moment of calm, a moment where he doesn’t realize what’s wrong with this picture, and then -

_Oh shit!_

\- He’s jolting upright and scrambling out of bed, cursing when he trips over the covers in his haste and falls to the floor. Spencer can feel tears of frustration building in the corners of his eyes, but there’s no time for that - he pushes himself up off of the floor and into the bathroom, takes his morning piss and shoots up before he can think better of it -

_Emily’s not gonna like that_

_Shhhh…I’m high, I don’t have to listen to you anymore_

\- He bounces his knee on the metro, buttoning and unbuttoning his shirt cuffs because everything just feels wrong. It doesn’t even occur to him to call ahead and make an excuse, tell Emily _I’m sick_ or _My apartment flooded_ or even _Something came up with my mom, I’m gonna be a little late_ (because Emily still doesn’t know that she’s gone)

By the time Spencer stumbles into the bullpen, it’s just passed eleven-thirty. It’s just passed eleven-thirty and he is _beyond_ late, he is the latest he’s ever been in his entire life. Everyone stares at him as he walks by, takes in his unshaven face and his bedhead and his crooked tie -

_Spence…_

\- someone says as he walks by, but he doesn’t have the energy to think about anything but getting himself into Emily’s office. So that’s what he does - he ignores them all and drags himself up the stairs instead, clenching his eyes shut for a moment before biting the bullet and pushing open the door.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just gestures toward the chair in front of her desk and lets her knowing eyes glide over him. If Spencer were more aware right now, he’d notice the pained expression that flashes her face before she can control it - as it is, he’s still pretty foggy from the hit he took in his bathroom a little over an hour ago and he doesn’t notice at all.

 _Reid_ , she says, _I can’t look past this behavior anymore._

 _What behavior?_ he fires back as if he doesn’t already know - there’s some sick part of him that wants her to tell him how horrible he’s been, that wants her to tell him how much she hates him. There’s some part of him that _wants_ to be hated because then at least he’ll have an excuse for his misery, he’ll have an excuse for all the things he’s done -

_It would still be your fault, dummy, you’d still be a killer_

_Yeah, I know. I think it would make me feel better, though_

\- Emily sighs and looks away for a moment as if she was hoping this would be easier. _Spencer…,_ she starts, and he furrows his brow once he hears the pain in her voice, _You’re more than three hours late for this meeting, a meeting I called to discuss your professional conduct. And I know things have been hard for you since prison, I’m not minimizing that, but there comes a point where I just can’t look past it anymore. You’re regularly late, your quality of work has been steadily dropping, especially over the past couple of months. Lately, everyone has started walking on eggshells around you because you’re_ that _unpredictable - last Friday, you yelled at the team to ‘shut up’ in front of the local officers -_

 _So, what then?_ he interrupts, clawing at his arms as he starts to realize what’s coming next, _You’re just giving up on me? Just like that, after all these years?_

_No, Spencer, that’s not -_

_I thought we were friends, Emily, but I guess you’re just like everyone else, aren’t you? I can’t spit out facts o-or fill out reports as fast as I could before, so you’re just gonna…throw me out like the defective piece of trash I am -_

_Spencer, stop!_ she shouts, shocking him into silence, _You_ are _my friend, I’m not giving up on you. But I can’t cover for you anymore, do you hear what I’m saying? I can’t_ cover for you _anymore._

And yeah, he hears her. He hears _I know you’re using again_ and _Why didn’t you ask for help?_ and _Hotch swept this under the rug the first time. I’m so sorry, but I can’t let there be a second_. And he just twists his hands together in his lap and stares down at them in shame, knowing his pupils look like pin pricks and lacking the balls to keep making excuses.

 _You have two options,_ she continues after a moment, _I’m giving you the opportunity to resign from the Bureau, and if you don’t I’m having you drug tested._

He lets out a shaky exhale as he tries to swallow that pill, biting his lip and picking at his fingernails as he tries to come up with a response. _How…,_ he says to the floor, _how long do I have to decide?_

 _Until the end of the day,_ she replies with somber regret painting her features - it’s as if she wishes she could do more, as if he’s fucked up so badly that he’s left her with no other options.

He bites back tears as he starts to process the words, starts to process them for real - he started doing _that thing_ because he wanted to keep his job, because he wanted to keep helping people, and now he’s losing his job because of it. 

Spencer pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the door in a daze, barely hearing Emily call after him as he turns the knob and steps back out into the bullpen, definitely not stopping because of it. His desk is familiar when he sits down in front of it - there’s all the little toys Garcia gifted him over the years, there’s pictures of him and Henry, him and the team, him and his mom. He doesn’t want to let go of this. He doesn’t want to let go of his family, but he knows there aren’t any other options anymore - he and Emily both know that there’s no chance in hell of him passing a drug test, both know that he’d be fired immediately as soon as he failed.

Spencer brushes his hands over the stacks of files in his inbox, pulls one out and traces over the FBI logo with a shaky fingertip -

_The next time you see one of these will be when you’re sitting on the wrong side of an interrogation table_

\- He opens the file and starts working the case inside, savoring his last few hours as an FBI agent.

…

Spencer considered this the last time he was using, considered walking away from the Bureau and all the horrible things that came with it. He doesn’t have a choice this time, but signing his name on the bottom of the page makes him feel like he’s that young again, like he’s twenty-five and chasing highs, pushing his friends away because he doesn’t know how else to ask them for help.

Emily waits patiently in her office until he works up the courage to turn in his papers, to say goodbye to the badge and gun he’s carried with him since he was twenty-two and didn’t know what life had coming for him. He places the papers down gently, fiddling with the placement on her desk until it feels a little less wrong, all the while unable to make himself look at her. He doesn’t want to give up his gun, but places it down on top of the papers. He doesn’t want to let go of his badge either, but he puts that down too, lets his twenty-two-year-old self stare up at him and thinks _what the fuck happened to you?_

Emily doesn’t say anything until he’s on his way out, until he’s reaching for the door and getting ready to say goodbye to the only constant he’s had throughout his entire adult life. 

_Spencer,_ she says, _I meant it when I said I’m not giving up on you. You may not have a place with the Bureau anymore, but everyone on this team still loves you. All of us want you to get better - each and every one of us is willing to help you through this, alright? We’re all ready to fight in your corner, don’t you ever forget that._

He pauses for a second, biting his lip as he tries to make his thoughts into words. In the end, all he says is _Thanks, I’ll…keep that in mind. Let everyone know I love them too_ before walking out, lingering over his desk for a moment before finally making his way towards the elevators -

_Ready to fight in your corner, huh? Do you think they’ll still feel that way once they figure it out?_

_They’re not gonna figure it out -_

_Ah ah ah, but you’re already itching for it, aren’t you? You’re already thinking about how much free time you’re gonna have now, how there won’t be anything else to occupy that giant brain of yours. Just admit it, Spencer, come on - admit it!_

_I…_

_Uh huh, that’s what I thought_


End file.
